She stood there with white set face and nervously clenched fingers. " "I tell you what, Jack," said Gay, "I've several urgent engagements this morning; but I'll return to-morrow, and hear the rest of your story. ‘She would not tell me. When you don’t have any fingers left, I take a toe. ‘They weren’t no soldiers. He read but little, and that chiefly healthy light fiction with chromatic titles, The Red Sword, The Black Helmet, The Purple Robe, also in order “to distract his mind. "Here, wife—hostess—fetch me that bottle from the second shelf in the corner cupboard. Now I’d like the rest of your story.
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